Gunshots and Nightmares
by CriminalOutsider'sGirl14
Summary: "You can still hear the shots ringing out in your ears and you can barely hear the sound of Darry's voice over them, shouting, as he reassures you that everything will be okay. But even in that moment, you know it won't. Nothing will ever be okay again."
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** "You can still hear the shots ringing out in your ears and you can barely hear the sound of Darry's voice over them, shouting, as he reassures you that everything will be okay. But even in that moment, you know it won't. Nothing will ever be okay again."

 **Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I don't own The Outsiders. Never have and sadly, never will. This is all just for my own enjoyment.**

 **Friday, March 31, 1967; 5:48 p.m.**

 _Macy Curtis_

The rubber ball came back to my hand with two quick thuds. One against the wall, and then a thudding sound as it made contact with my palm. Bored, I threw it again, but this time it bounced against the wall and instead of coming right back to me, ricocheted off my backpack and lamely rolled under my bed. I groaned.

" _I'm. Boooored_ ," I muttered to the empty room.

At school that morning, Ponyboy came up to me during lunch and asked if I wanted to go to the movies with him. I agreed readily because the idea of getting out of the house sounded promising. Plus, it was a Friday, which meant little homework in most of my classes since we were taking a lot of tests. But when I got home from Orchestra practice a little after four, Ponyboy was gone and there was just a note saying he went to the library. Only that was two hours ago.

How long did it take to pick out a freaking book?

He said he'd be back in an hour, not two, and I was beginning to get impatient. If he didn't get back by six or six thirty, we would miss the movie. And waiting around for him to show up wasn't exactly my idea of an exciting Friday night.

"Darry?" I called as I walked into the kitchen, my eyes glancing around for a snack. "Has anyone seen Ponyboy since school got out?"

Darry shook his head. He had his fingers laced around the phone as if he wanted to call, but he couldn't make his body cooperate. Something in his eyes told me this wasn't right, that he shared the bad feeling I had to. The tension and worry filled our small kitchen, the emotions almost suffocating.

"Two-Bit said him and Johnny left school as soon as the bell rang and he hasn't seen them since. Soda called and he hasn't been by the DX."

I sighed, shaking my head. I knew he was bad at keeping track at time, but this was getting ridiculous. Unless Darry's intuition was right and something was actually very wrong.

"It's after six, Darry, are we sure he's just being irresponsible? I mean, what if he got jumped and Johnny ain't with 'im? It's not like he carries a blade..."

Darry glanced at the clock, his eyes glazing over with worry. "Yeah, you're right. Grab your shoes. It won't hurt to drive around for a bit. I'm sure we'll just find him with his nose in a book at the library."

How very wrong we were.

An hour later, next to a dumpster in an alley a mile away from Curly's house, Darry and I stumbled upon an image that will forever haunt me: Ponyboy, his head caked with dried and fresh blood mixed together, turning his auburn hair a sickly dark red, and sweet, kind Johnny, his body carelessly tossed into the dumpster like he wasn't even human. Like he mattered as much as the trash that surrounded him. It made me sick to think his whole life he was treated like garbage, even in death. His forehead was covered in blood from a shot between his eyes, and one in his leg, covered up by bloodied, dirty jeans. When we first laid eyes on them my heart sunk to my feet, unable to tell the difference between the living and the dead. I wasn't able to breath correctly until Darry placed a shaking hand under Ponyboy's nose, checking for signs of life. Within an instant Ponyboy was on Darry's shoulder and I was running blindly for a pay phone.

Everything became blurry as I focused on the sound of my feet hitting pavement to keep from passing out. I think I could have beat Ponyboy's track time that day with how fast I ran. It wasn't until I hung up with the police that the gravity of the situation hit me, and I leaned against the outside of the payphone cubicle, sobs escaping my lips as I struggled to remain upright with tears blurring my vision.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

 **Wednesday, August 30, 1967; 1:38 p.m.**

 _Ponyboy_

Four months. Twenty-nine days. Seventeen hours. Sixteen minutes.

Your leg bounces with nervous energy. You're supposed to be finishing up your first paper for your creative writing class, but you can't focus. You can't take your eyes off the clock, your body instinctively counting the seconds. Each click of the grandfather clock sounds like a bomb going off in this suffocating living room.

Your house is a war zone. And the enemy is you.

You get up to get a drink of water, hoping the cold will shock your body out of the impeding panic you can't seem to shake. You can feel Darry's eyes on you as the water collects in your cup, and you strain to hear the clicking of the clock now that the water's running.

You find yourself unable to take his stares, so you step outside for a smoke. You're over halfway done with your second pack of the day, and your empty stomach begins to revolt, but you don't care. Anything to stop the way you feel inside, the way you jump at every noise. The sound of Darry dropping a plate into the sink. The crash that makes you jump out of your skin when Soda knocked over the telephone.

Everything is quiet for just a bliss second until without warning, the silent night erupts into blind fear as gunshots ring out down the block. Unable to control it, you find yourself back there, at that rundown house on the wrong side of Tulsa, and the porch tilts underneath you as the sound of his voice overtakes your senses.

You can still hear Johnny saying in his quiet voice that it's going to be okay. The sound of his voice still haunts you. You can still feel the burning hole his death left in the pit of your stomach, clenching at your chest. You try to take deep breaths, but your lungs aren't cooperating. You can hear Darry opening the door behind you, but your too busy grabbing onto the railing for support.

You can still hear the shots ringing out in your ears and you can barely hear the sound of Darry's voice over them, shouting, as he reassures you that everything will be okay. But even in that moment, you know it won't.

Nothing will ever be okay again.

 **A/n: Umm, well, I don't know what this is. This isn't me saying I'm "coming back". More me saying I actually can never quit writing. Just me making sure no one expects a typical updating schedule or a ton of activity. I don't know. I guess no one will complain if I throw some chapters out every once and a while. I'll do my best to work on this when I have time, but I won't be working on writing as much as I used to be able to. Violin and school are my priorities right now.**

 ****** This is actually a parody/continuation of my other story, Blind Eyes That See. Only Ponyboy has his memory. So, same killer, (that you will learn), Johnny is still dead, but the murderer is in jail. And the Curtis' have a sister named Macy! And Ponyboy is obviously not recovering well and we will see what happens with that. Thanks guys!**

 **Stay Gold,**

 **~ Alee XxX**


	2. Chapter 2

**Gunshot Nightmare**

 **Summary : "** _You can still hear the shots ringing out in your ears and you can barely hear the sound of Darry's voice over them, shouting, as he reassures you that everything will be okay. But even in that moment, you know it won't. Nothing will ever be okay again."_

 **Disclaimer: Yeah, no. I don't own The Outsiders. Never have and sadly, never will. This is all just for my own enjoyment.**

 **A/n: Thank you to the amazing HappierThanMost for her idea of Mrs. C having panic attacks. I got the idea from reading her story New Beginning, and this is a really amazing idea that she came up with and uses it in a few of her stories, and she was kind enough to allow me to borrow it. If you haven't read any of her stories, check them out. She is one of my top favorite authors.**

 **Saturday, April 1, 1967; 1:27 a.m.**

 _Ponyboy_

That night I could hardly sleep. The panic might have subsided some from my chest, but it left a hollow gap that kept me awake. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop remembering that night. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the Shepard's couch, ripped and sagging in the middle.

" _Ponyboy, man, I need your help."_

 _I couldn't help but sigh as I picked up the phone, his voice becoming audible before I even had a chance to put it to my ear. "What now, Curly? I told you I ain't selling for you, so you can just shut up about that."_

 _"It ain't about that. I got myself into some trouble and, well, there are some guys here who aren't too happy. If you don't wanna find me in a body bag, could you be so kind as to help me out? Bring about a thousand dollars. Cash. Don't come alone, pretty boy."_

 _If I had been drinking any water, I would have spit it out like they did in the movies. I could feel myself choking on air, flabbergasted._

 _"Where am I supposed to find that kind of money?"_

 _"I don't know. Get creative or I'm about to get my head blown off."_

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. But the words left me unsettled. It wasn't curly, the guy who got us into the mess, who ended up getting hurt. It was Johnny, who wasn't even involved.

I could still see the way the gun flashed in the light, and the way the gun holding it smiled like shorting innocent people was fun to him. I had given his description to the cops, unable to shake his face from my memory, and had even met with a sketch artist to draw a picture of his face for the public, but nothing happened. The case still remained open, and everyday I still wondered if he would come back for me.

Worrying won't help, I tried to tell myself, rolling over into the warmth of my blankets, but the anxious rolled on like a broken record I didn't want to play in the first place.

 **OoOoOoO**

 _Macy_

I wasn't oblivious.

I was many things, but dumb and oblivious weren't on the list. Ponyboy may have thought he hid his feelings well, but our family was no stranger to the telltale signs of a brewing panic attack.

Growing up, I had caught glimpses of my mom, pale and shaky, leaning against the side of the tub as Dad tried to calm her down with his soothing drawl. As I got older, I began to notice the little things that changed when she was having a particularly bad day. I didn't forget suddenly when Ponyboy started having them.

On top of mom, Soda himself had even suffered a panic attack when he was thirteen, and I could remember laying on the couch, sick as a dog, hearing Soda's quick, labored breathing coming from his bedroom. Being only ten and a half, I listened closer, but only picked up a few words through my clogged ears. I later found out, though, that he had a panic attack. He grew out of them eventually, unlike mom, but I never forget the way both my brother and mom acted like during and before their attacks.

Which meant I knew the minute Ponyboy became more anxious than normal. I picked up on the slight shake in his hand, the way his eyes darted around the room or stared straight ahead, a fearful but faraway look in them.

I knew I wasn't the only one who noticed. Darry was worrying his head off, and Soda was desperately trying to get Pony to open up to him, but the kid was a fortress at hiding his feelings if he felt like it.

No one expected him to be okay right away. He lost his best friend. He had been there after all. But I couldn't help but worry. Especially with his attacker still out there, a threat laminating over the horizon, waiting for the right time to attack again and finish what he started.

 **~ May 13, 1967 ~ 7:48 p.m.**

I never really got along with the gang the way the others did.

Steve never like me; to him, I was just like Ponyboy: a tag along kid. Only I was also a girl tagging along that he didn't get to sleep with when the night was over, making him even more annoyed than he was with Ponyboy.

And I wasn't very good with quiet people, giving Johnny and I a disadvantage. Plus, Johnny was Ponyboy's best friend, so we were never really that tight. Two-Bit was an pretty alright, he didn't treat me any different from Darry or any of the others, even when we were little.

Dally, on the other hand, was the only gang member I spent time with outside of my house. We weren't best friends, and he sure wasn't the type of guy to share any heartfelt conversations or secrets too, but he was the only one I would sit out on the porch with, smoking, and be content with silence. As unusual as our little arrangement was, I considered him my best friend out of the gang. For some reason, we just dug each other. He looked out for me in his own way, and I understood him in ways the gang didn't.

Maybe that's why I found feet carrying me towards Buck's trashy establishment one afternoon. It had been two weeks since anyone had last seen Dally. Since the "incident" a few months ago, he had been showing up less and less often, but he at least checked in about once a week.

I figured the first place to look for him would be at Bucks. Buck answers the door what felt like days after I knocked, his breath reeking as if he hadn't brushed his teeth in a year, and his eyes were glassy and unfocused.

"Whadda you waann', kid?" He slurred, spit flying from his mouth as he talked. I tried not to noticeably cringe.

"Dally. I gotta see Dally," I demanded, using the voice I used when the Socs messed with me at school. Much to Darry's disappointment, I tended to get in fights at school, even more so than Ponyboy. He chalked it up to Angela Shepard's influence on me, but truth was I had a temper as hot as any of the Curtis boys. I never started the fights, but Angela had taught me a little bit of how to defend myself, and the fact that I carried a switchblade always seemed to be twisted when any adult was within a mile radius. Which earned me more than one trip to the principals office.

Luckily, Buck took the bait and mumbled, "he's up thare."

I bounded up the stairs and gave two hard knocks on Dally's door. I heard the squeaking of bedsprings before he opened the door. I almost gasped when I saw him: there were dark bags under his red-rimmed blue eyes, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in about three weeks. His hands were dirty and shook as he held on to the door frame, trying to look intimidating.

"Why are you here, Mace?" He demanded, his voice sounding rough but gentle at the same time. Unlike his usual demeanor, he sounded more embarrassed that I was seeing him in that state than tough or angry. As the light hit his face better I could see how pale he was, and he looked like he had lost weight.

"I-I, came to check on you. No one's seen you in weeks," I replied, stumbling slightly. He turned around suddenly, shaking his head, leaving the door open for me to follow. It took me a few seconds to regain control of my feet, but the sound of rough coughing compelled me to finally walk inside his room.

"Are you sick?" I asked, the confidence in my voice surprising me. I was never this abrasive with him. No one was unless they had a death wish. But instead of blackening my eyes, he remained silent, laying back down on his squeaky bed and taking another gulp of whatever was in the bottle next to his bed.

I leaned against the wall across from him, my knees to my chest. He didn't meet my eyes for a few long seconds until I pulled out a pack from my back pocket and tossed him a cigarette. He took it without a word, and we sat in a more comfortable silence, only the sounds of our breathing and muddled country music for ambiance.

As my joint began to run out, Dally spoke up.

"I miss him."

His raspy voice surprised me, but without missing a beat I nodded.

"Me too."

We stayed that way for almost an hour, with only the occasional cough disrupting the silence.

"Our couch is always open," I offered in a neutral tone as I stood up to go. He looked unsure for a moment before replying.

"Stop worry, Mace. I'll take you up on that. Just let me get rid of this annoying cough first," he grumbled the last part, but I just laughed lightly at him. Before I could get the door shut I heard him say softly,

"I promise."

He never went more than two days without someone knowing where he was after that.

 **A/n: This chapter isn't as edited as it should be, and it's probably cheesy, but I didn't want to go another week before posting so it's going up now. Please be forgiving and I hope you guys enjoyed it!**

 **Stay Gold,**

 **~ Alee XxX**


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